'Tumebledown': The Perfect Indie Antidote to Pre-Oscars Snoozefests

The eve of the Oscars is the quietest time of the cinematic year, so we're lucky this month to have Tumbledown to keep us company, a feature that's comedic and romantic but adds up to something more than a straight-up rom-com. It's the kind of indie project that has clearly led something of a charmed life on its years-long way to the screen, as so many of its key elements appear to have fallen into place by serendipity. Written by Desiree Van Til and directed by Sean Mewshaw—a husband-and-wife pair of émigrés from Tinseltown who settled in Van Til's native Farmington, Maine, some years ago—Tumbledown is locally set and incorporates various personae and scenery familiar to Van Til.

Tumbledown's first impressive feat is dodging a huge sinkhole that could have swallowed it whole from the get-go. By now, we're all too familiar with the fetishizing cultishness that arises upon the demise of Promising Young Artists; Hannah Miles (the criminally underemployed Rebecca Hall—on the evidence here, she should be getting a lot more juicy lead roles), who has survived the untimely death of her folkie singer-songwriter husband, Hunter, has to deal with this cultural affliction on a regular basis, in a small town no less—as often as not with eyes rolling in exasperation. Hall's spirited portrayal of Hannah's earthy, conflicted attempts to move on with her life crucially steers clear of mawkishness and (for the most part) morbid preoccupation.

Andrew McCabe (Jason Sudeikis), an ambitious young pop-culture and American studies prof, shows up in town and signals that he gets how annoying the creepy cult thing is by somewhat dismissively name-checking Nick Drake, Jeff Buckley, David Foster Wallace, and Kurt Cobain when he meets Hannah. But that doesn't resolve the tension between them: Hannah is dead set on writing Hunter's biography; McCabe, delivering a hilarious impromptu slab of academic malarkey, contends that he should be the one to immortalize Hunter's place in the pop pantheon. Their ensuing minuet of competition and cooperation drives the story along smartly—and Sudeikis is wonderfully served here, as his McCabe memorably mixes smart-alecky snark and reasonably well-camouflaged sensitivity.

Around these characters is a cluster of strong supporting players: a musky, moody Joe Manganiello as the semiarticulate rustic guy who's not above letting Hannah use him for some much-needed carnal comforting; Blythe Danner as the radiant, ever-hopeful matriarch who just wants her Hannah to be happy; Dianna Agron as McCabe's smug, citified squeeze; and, maybe best of all, a shambling Griffin Dunne as the town bookseller and puckish busybody.

The narrative is given enormous verisimilitude by two canny elements: short recitatives from McCabe's musings about Hunter Miles that are persuasively heartfelt; and, even more affecting, the scraps of song contributed to the film score by Damien Jurado, a veteran of Seattle's indie-folk scene. They pack a wistful, Neil Youngish wallop that perfectly fits the movie's mood. It all tends to stick with you—more than just a little bit.

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